And now for someone completely different

I'VE been writing for years and some things you will never be prepared for, such as meeting one of your comedy heroes.

How do you react when you unexpectedly get to interview a man partially responsible for providing the very foundations of your sense of humour?

Whose work, together with his comedy partners, was impressed on me from an early age, and I could usually be heard laughing as my father and I mis-quoted their catchphrases and sketches.

This week I  got the chance to meet Terry Jones, and almost met Michael Palin. 

Unless you are from a rather serious, and sheltered planet, you will know I'm referring to two members of Monty Python.

They were in town for a special screening of Monty Python's Life of Brian, a film released in 1979 which prompted much controversy with religious types and therefore prompted a rumour that it was banned in Aberystwyth.

Like all good rumours, nobody is quite sure how it started, and as with a lot of old policies, rules, or decisions taken by local authorities, nobody was able to confirm whether the film was actually banned and on what grounds.

 Perhaps it just a passing thought a county council officer had once whilst standing in the work cafeteria, which he muttered faintly to his PA and then promptly forgot about it as he contentedly dug into his shepherd's pie and beans.

Either way, the Mayor of the town, who played Brian's girlfriend Judith Iscariot in the film was determined to get it screened for charity.

And it was a jolly good reason to entice some of the Pythons to the area.

I was unable to attend the screening, however my photographer was lovely enough, in between jostling with 17 other photographers for that elusive picture, to ask Palin for an autograph for me. 

My joy was doubled when he then presented me with a pic of Palin writing said autograph - it was almost like I was there. And he had to write my name so now he must have heard of me... right?

So it was all I could do not to spontaneously combust when, some nine hours later I found myself at a second charity screening of the film, but this time in Machynlleth.

And Terry Jones was there too! 

Before I know what's happening, I'm whisked over to interview the great man, and have to fight to maintain even the smallest degree of professionalism, when in fact all I want to do is quote lines at him, play him the video clips of our pet cockatiel whistling 'Always look on the bright side of life' and show him how my ringtone is in fact a soundclip of him as Brian's mother in the film shouting "He's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy!"

Despite the fact he lives in mid Wales, I think I must have asked him at least three times what he thinks of Machynlleth and each time he patiently explained that he probably knows the town better than I do.

After about four minutes of my shambolic interviewing, I eventually give in to my inner Python and just ask for his autograph, a request which both of us look relieved at.

But he was lovely and I still can't believe I've met him - even if my interview was more ridiculous than the Ministry of Silly Walks.

He's not the messiah. But he is the closest thing to a comedy god I've ever met.

Sunday morning - It's just a restless feeling by my side

I CANNOT sit still. I don't know why. I get like this normally as we welcome in a new year but it soon dwindles. I make these massive statements that this will be the year that...(insert fantastical idea). It soon fades as I get caught up in everyday life. 

It hit me again about a week ago and has yet to subside. In a ploy to channel my nervous energy I keep cleaning the house. I don't mean doing the dishes or having a quick hoover round the living room, it's more extreme than that. 

Friday night: people everywhere are either getting ready to go out and have fun, or just winding down and relaxing. I didn't do either; I washed the skirting boards instead.  And before that, we were about to watch a film, suddenly the boyf hears a clatter in the kitchen to find me lugging the large microwave to the floor so I can anti-bac the surface it normally stands on. 

During the week, before I went to bed, I started moving all the books and DVDS off the shelves of the bookcases to dust it.  And what is odder is that I'm now lying to the boyf about it. In the morning he quizzically stared at the duster and polish by the book case, trying to work out if we had cleaning elves in the night. He questioned me and I denied it - saying it was there to remind me the room needs cleaning - regardless of the fact that there was no longer any dust to be seen and the room had a fresh lemony smell to it. It's becoming some weird shameful secret. 

Earlier this week I got up from the couch during the normal evening of wall-to-wall TV, claiming I needed some paracetamol.  Twenty minutes later I'm still in the bathroom, using an old toothbrush to clean around and under the sink. 

And today is no better, I started washing doors. Even Kim and Aggy would be freaked out by me right now.

I have tried to channel the energy into other stuff. I bought three books. And then read them all back to back in the space of 48 hours (which also included time to sleep, eat and work). I've had to ditch that idea until I find my library card, or it's going to prove very expensive. 

So now I'm writing. And it seems instead of cleaning I'm now writing about cleaning. But I keep getting distracted by the fact I can see dust on my keyboard... Now, where was that cloth?

Revenge of the citrus fruit

LIVING by the sea you begin to view the weather like that nursery rhyme 'There was a little girl who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; When she was good, she was very very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.'  The weather tends to swing from extremes and in winter can seem very bleak.  I tend to get by with a decent winter coat, the hope that it will soon be Spring, and an endless supply of satsumas to snack on in a vague optimism that they will stop me a, indulging in fatty comfort foods, and b, venturing out in the cold to find said comfort foods.

Quite bizarrely, my favourites, tangerines, have disappeared off the supermarkets' radars - you cannot buy them any more. There isn't even a space on the shelf where they used to be - I only assume there must be a big tangerine cover-up by the government - and any supermarket staff who are so bold as to enquire when the next delivery of tangerines is likely to be are taken into a small hidden room and beaten with their own name-badges until they forget the fruit ever existed.   I now have to make do with the pip-laden satsumas, the unpeelable clementines or the ambiguous 'citrus fruit'  - some tasteless substitute for the fantastic tangerine which is that bland it doesn't even deserve an exciting name.  Nevertheless I have an unwritten rule that five or more of these must be within grabbing distance - a snacking device which has horribly backfired on me.

 

 My car has been smelling bad recently - I suspected it was due to a forgotten satsuma or even worse - citrus fruit - loose in my car somewhere and rotting.  Having searched under the seats I couldn't find anything and put the odd smell as being the window de-icer sprays I had bought; they were on offer so I got carried away and bought enough to keep 20 greenhouses defrosted for about two years.  With the snow last week I congratulated myself in being organised enough to buy this spray in advance and with a certain smugness ran outside before work to get the car cleared in time.  I mentally high-fived myself for my preparation skills, stuffing the car with a fleece blanket and a shovel. I hasten to add this was advised by people on the TV for anyone braving the snowy conditions and not because I wanted to shift a dead body as suggested by a suspicious neighbour.  As I opened the car boot I could hear heavenly choirs sing in celebration of my triumphant ability to be ready for the snow as I grabbed my wellies (which had sat in the car since my death-hike up to the Centre for Alternative Technology).

 Car running? Check. Snow cleared? Check. Blanket and shovel ready for snowy (not murderous) conditions? Check. Wellies on? Almost. Wearing the obligatory three pairs of socks required for wellies-in-snow situations I jammed my right foot in a boot... And screamed.

 Soaking through all three pairs of socks was what used to be a citrus fruit. A very mouldy, soft and smelly citrus fruit.   Source of bad smell in car identified? Check.  With no other option for practical footwear I cleaned the inside of the wellie as best I could, changed the socks and spent the entire day smelling like a rotten bowl of fruit and squelching when I walked. 

 

 How did the fruit get in my boot in the first place? I have no idea - probably linked to my carrying them for snacking with me all the time. But I just can't shake off the vision of a government official sitting at his large mahogany desk somewhere wringing his hands, smiling to himself and muttering: 'That'll teach her for asking questions about tangerines.'